


In Amber

by agent85



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, MCU Cameo, Major Spoilers, post 2x22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 13:03:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3937810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent85/pseuds/agent85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She drifts in the darkness and watches him. Post 2x22.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Amber

She drifts in the darkness and watches him.

Sometimes, he watches, too. Sometimes, his impossibly blue eyes sweep over her, and she tries to call out, but when the sound can't reach him, he eventually goes back to his tinkering.

She's not sure what this is, only that time is slipping away. She doesn't know how long she's been captive behind this glass, but she knows he hasn't given up on her yet. There are moments when she leaves this place, and is it sleep? Or is it more of a floating away, of an ebb and a flow and a crashing on shore? But when she comes back, there he is, always.

She used to have dreams like this, when she was a girl. One night, her mother was taken away by growling men in dark clothes, and all her dream-self could do was stand frozen in the doorway, screaming without voice. But this time, she's the one who's been taken away, and he would save her if he could, she knows he would. But they are both powerless now, both held captive by this rock, by the tar-like substance that has sunk in so deep that she's not quite sure what she is these days, only that she  _is_.

She's not sure if she still has a heart that beats or lungs that breathe, but the parts that are left are the ones that matter. Maybe these unknown forces have left her with only her soul, but she loves him with every part of it.

And even as her very body fades away into nothing, she watches him live, and breathe, and build. He's been working on something small and deadly, and she knows there was a purpose for it, but that's been taken from her, too. She wonders if he thinks of her as he works, if he can feel her presence next to him. Sometimes he looks up, like he detected a shift in the air, but his eyes don't find her. She sees that the light she loved so dearly has faded, that his body seems to be wasting away, just as she is. She sees how tired he is, how desperate.

She fades away and comes back again, and this time, he's crying. He's leaning against the glass, thunking his head once or twice, and she doesn't have to see his face to know that the tears are falling in thick drops, and that he's spelling out her name with his lips. She knows now the worst part of this is that she's here, she's  _right here_ , and she has no arms to wrap around him, no thumbs to dry his tears, no lips to find the sorrow and cure it.

The next time she sees him, he's staring at her with folded arms and a furrowed brow. And the tears, the tears are still leaking out of red-rimmed eyes, but there is also a fire in his gaze, a determination.

And, she realizes, a little madness.

Every moment of this has been terrifying, but the horror that fills her now is sharp and piercing. She knows him. She knows what he's going to do.

She can't stop him, and she's not sure that she wants to.

When the door swings open, he gapes at her, as if he's surprised that he's still standing. He takes a few steps backward, and waits for the darkness to consume him. And it will, she knows; it's the ebb and the flow and the unquenchable thirst. It consumed her once, and it will consume them both.

It's strange when she feels the dissolving. When she's here, she's like a mosquito in amber, and this is . . . this is like melting. Like shattering into pieces. She falls on the floor, and she's surprised when she  _feels_  it, feels the hardness and the coolness of it, and then there's a warmth and a softness that is closing around her, that is pulling her forward while the rest of her tries to recoil.

"Help!" he cries. "Help, Mack! It's Jemma!"

There's a thumping of feet (and did she just take a breath?) when she hears the groaning that must be the sound of her ripping in two, because that's the only thing that can hurt like this.

"I've got you, Jemma. I won't let go. I've got you."

"Fitz?"

It's supposed to be a question, but it comes out a shriek, because her body is being shred into tendons and veins, and they won't be able to put her back together, they won't. But when the air is finally expelled from her lungs, the shrill note is still in the air, and maybe that's what's making the darkness detach and retreat. Maybe that's what pushes her forward, tumbling into him.

"I'll lock it in!"

The voice belongs to a large mass that runs behind her, but he is in her arms, and she has arms, and his fingers rake through her hair, and she has those, too. She can smell him, she can taste the air, she can breathe, and she is home.

"Fitz?"

"Jemma. Oh, Jemma."

He pulls back, and finally,  _finally_  his eyes meet hers, and a thousand words flow between them until her eyelids start to droop, and her smile starts to falter.

"Shh, Jemma it's okay. You're okay; you're just tired."

She falls into him, letting him cradle her, letting him tuck a lock of hair behind her ear and graze her cheek with his thumb. She's starting to drift away again, but she knows that she'll come back, and he'll still be there.

There's a rumbling behind her, and she knows they're coming, and that they'll take her out of his arms, so she clutches at him with all the strength she has left.

When he leans in and whispers, "Dinner?" into her ear, she finds the energy to smile at him and nod.

"Dinner."

* * *

"You're sure she's okay," Coulson asks through pursed lips. "She's been in there for weeks, and who knows what happened to her."

"Honestly, I don't know how she's alive, but she is." Dr. Cho removes her rubber gloves and throws them in the trash before picking up her tablet. "She's severely dehydrated and malnourished, but she'll be fine. She should wake up soon."

Coulson flexes the hand that is supposed to be as good as new. It doesn't feel quite right yet. "We're lucky you were still in the neighborhood," he says. Dr. Cho meets his eyes with a smile.

"Anything for a friend of Maria's."

Coulson returns the smile with a nod, then shifts his attention to Fitz, whose gaze is still trained on Jemma. He is clutching one of her hands in both of his, and he doesn't even raise his eyes when the director asks, "How did you get her out of there?"

Fitz fumbles around in his pocket and produces a small disc. The director raises an eyebrow. "A splinter bomb?"

The engineer gives a distracted nod. "Modified. It, uh, it emits an, uh . . ." He pinches his eyes shut. "Do I have to explain it?"

"No, but I'll expect a full report by, uh," Fitz offers the weapon blindly, and Coulson tries to take it with his good hand. "You know. When you're ready."

As soon as the disc is out of his grasp, Fitz uses his free fingers to trace her hairline. "Yes, sir."

He nods to Fitz, knowing the gesture won't be noticed. But as Coulson slinks away, he can't help but overhear the words that come out in a light Scottish brogue.

"We always find our way back to each other, don't we?"

And when he takes a moment to listen, he hears the answer in a weak, English lilt.

"Of course we do."


End file.
